


If you're gonna throw your life away, he'd better have a motorcycle

by Kacka



Series: Oy With the Poodles Already [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gilmore Girls Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 23:00:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11587944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: Bellamy isn't a huge fan of his sister's new flirtationship, but he has to admit he might not have handled it the best way. In his defense, he's got one or two other things going on.





	If you're gonna throw your life away, he'd better have a motorcycle

**Author's Note:**

> I've actually had this finished for a while but I told myself I wouldn't post it until I finished part three. Which I have only half done, so I'm hoping posting this now will give me the boost I need to finish it

“Uh-oh,” Octavia says under her breath. She’s looking out the window of Clarke’s diner with a look on her face Bellamy can only describe as ‘apprehensive.’

“What?” He twists around to look.

“Jasper’s got a big box in his hands and that look he only gets on his face when he’s figured out some new moneymaking plan.”

“Uh-oh,” Bellamy echoes.

Jasper is lovably ridiculous, but he’s known around town for being willing to do just about anything for a dollar, from putting on a one-man-Nirvana-cover-band concert, to a rickshaw business that came to a sudden arboreal stop, to dressing up in a peanut costume (that looked borderline pornographic, in Bellamy’s opinion, though seeing a scandalized Jaha was more than worth it) at last year’s Fall Festival. He means well, but his entrepreneurial schemes tend to be hit-or-miss, and are always off-color.

“Incoming,” Octavia warns, smiling over Bellamy’s shoulder as he hears the diner door chime behind him.

“Morning, Blakes,” Jasper says cheerfully, beelining for their table.

“Morning.”

“Whatcha got in the box?” Bellamy flinches when Octavia kicks him under the table. Jasper doesn’t notice, brightening.

“I heard about this guy who has started selling shirts every day with topical headlines about things that are happening around his town, and I thought to myself: _self, enough happens in Ark Grove, we could use something like that_.”

Bellamy and Octavia exchange a look.

“What does today’s shirt say?” Octavia asks, sounding almost like she’s nervous to know.

Jasper holds one up proudly, plain black with Times New Roman type across the front, declaring--

“Monty’s blooms: late,” Octavia reads. She squints at Jasper. “What does that even mean?”

“He promised me he’d have his squash at the Farmer’s Market by this weekend, but they’re not ready yet.” He frowns down at the shirt in his hands. “What else could it mean?” He grumbles, more to himself than to Octavia.

“Well,” she says hastily, “you know, art can have lots of meanings. I didn’t know how deep we were getting.”

Jasper nods, mollified.

“That’s so true. They’re fifteen dollars apiece; how many can I interest you in?”

“I’ll buy one,” Bellamy says, taking pity on Jasper and pulling his wallet out. He’ll give the shirt to Miller, who will either find it hilarious or disturbing. Either way, it’ll be fun for Bellamy to watch. “Large, please.”

“Hey,” Clarke says sharply, coming over with a fresh pot of coffee like the goddess she is. “No soliciting in my diner, Jasper. And you--” she gives Bellamy a sharp tap to the shoulder. “Don’t encourage him. You know my rules.”

“Maybe I just like getting you fired up,” Bellamy teases as Jasper slinks away with his box to talk to another customer while Clarke is distracted.

He and Clarke have a weird dynamic these days. After what happened-- or almost happened-- in the kitchen at Octavia’s birthday party, it had been weirdly tense between them. They didn’t get much of a chance to talk one-on-one at the party, nor in the following weeks. Octavia would be around, or Clarke would have an irate customer to deal with, and then the inn hosted two big weddings and a class reunion right in a row, leaving Bellamy swamped and uncertain where they stood.

It wasn’t until the Founders Day Festival they got a chance to speak again.

He can’t get the image out of his head, how she’d looked in the light of the bonfire, her hair glowing like a soft halo, her smile small but pure. He’d been working up to something, a confession, a kiss, anything, when a strange car pulled up to the curb right next to where they were standing.

Clarke glanced over, ready to glare at it, and then her eyes were widening and the driver was rounding the car to pull her into a huge hug.

She’d introduced him as Finn, a friend from before Bellamy and Octavia had moved to town, a former beau, Bellamy was pretty sure. Finn had pointedly asked Clarke if they could go somewhere to catch up one-on-one, she’d cast an unreadable look at Bellamy, who felt like an asshole for wanting to say no. For wanting to reclaim the moment.

Instead, he smiled and told her she should go. Instead, he watched her walk away with Finn, and now, months later, he’s never regretted anything more. The flame from her past has become the present-day boyfriend, and neither Bellamy nor Clarke seem to be sure where that leaves their friendship.

“I know how hard you work to annoy me,” Clarke grumbles, pushing up the sleeves of her flannel of the day. “If I wasn’t so concerned with Octavia getting a balanced diet, the rule would be no Bellamy in my diner either.”

“Yeah, right,” Bellamy scoffs, nudging her. She tries (and fails) not to smile. “I’m your favorite customer.”

“You’re a nuisance.”

“On a related note,” Octavia pipes in, “You can keep adding salads to my order, but that doesn’t mean I’ll eat them.”

“I’ll just have to be sneakier,” Clarke says, with an unrestrained smile for his sister. He tries not to be too jealous.

Just then, the other big change in the past few months appears.

“Morning,” says Lincoln, nodding at Clarke, at Bellamy, and giving Octavia a private smile. She tosses her hair and grins back in response, and Bellamy hopes he never has to watch his sister flirt any more than this. “You ready to go?”

“Yep. Bye, Bell. Have a good day.” Octavia shovels the last bite of eggs into her mouth and kisses Bellamy on the cheek, slinging her backpack on as she goes. A hurricane of movement, his sister. Never still for a second, sweeping through on a path of her own, obstacles be damned.

“You too.” Bellamy is tense as he watches them go.

Another sharp rap on his shoulder brings him back to the present, where Clarke is frowning at him.

“Stop worrying.”

“He’s nineteen, Clarke.”

“And he’s a good kid, Bellamy.”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Lincoln is a friend of Clarke’s from art classes she takes through the community center in the next town over. He’s a student at the community college, and Clarke has been letting him crash with her for the past six weeks or so. He’d lost his part-time job when his employers found out about substance abuse charges in his past, and signed over his lease to someone else when he couldn’t afford rent anymore. Clarke offered him a place to stay and a job waiting tables at the diner until he’s back on his feet.

Which means he’s been around a lot.

Around the diner. Around Octavia.

Smiling at Octavia, doodling pictures of her on napkins, giving her rides to the community college course she’s taking since Ark Grove High doesn’t offer Advanced Placement.

There’s only a two-year age difference, but those are crucial developmental years, and it makes Bellamy’s skin itch. Octavia has only ever had one boyfriend before: Atom, a kid Bellamy knew pretty well from around town. Lincoln is an unknown quantity.

“I’m sure he’s great,” Bellamy says, sure of no such thing, “But he’s too old for her.”

“It’s two years.”

“Two not insignificant years.”

“He thinks so too, you know.”

Clarke’s quiet conviction causes him to shift his gaze from his sister’s receding figure.

“Don’t get me wrong, he likes your sister a lot. But he told me he’s only looking for her friendship right now. He said if she’s still interested, a few years down the road… then, maybe. I trust him with Octavia.”

Bellamy rakes his hand through his hair again. He forgets sometimes that Clarke watched O grow up, that she loves Octavia more than just a customer, more than just a friend.

“I don’t know him well enough to trust him.”

Clarke reaches over to clasp his hand.

“Then trust me.”

Her eyes draw his like a magnet, a force Bellamy is unable to resist even if he wanted to. They’re blue and serious and clear as a cloudless sky.

“Yeah," he says, covering their hands with his free one, then extracting both. She has a boyfriend, and his heart is too tangled up in her to pretend holding her hands doesn’t mean something. “I guess I have to.”

* * *

"Butternut squash is the linchpin of all my seasonal dishes!” Bellamy can hear Miller’s distressed tone from the reception desk, so he gives the guest before him his most pacifying smile and hands the transaction over to Lexa so he can go tell his chef to simmer down.

“You’ll just have to serve something else,” Monty is arguing back when Bellamy enters, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I already printed the menus,” Miller says, crossing his arms right back.

“Heads up,” Bellamy calls, tossing the bundled t-shirt at Miller, who catches it reflexively, surprise crossing both his and Monty’s faces. “And pipe down,” Bellamy adds. “You’re scaring the guests.”

“Sorry,” Monty says sheepishly, as Miller gets the shirt unfolded and promptly dissolves into laughter. He turns it around to show Monty, whose expression of confusion turns to one of pained exasperation. “This has Jasper written all over it.”

“Actually, it has ‘Monty’s blooms: late’ written all over it,” Bellamy points out, grinning as Miller, who had almost collected himself, starts laughing all over again.

“Makes me sound like I haven’t gone through puberty yet,” Monty grumbles, but he’s smiling fondly as he watches Miller laugh. “Look, I’ll have the squash for you in a couple of weeks. Until then, can you serve corn-based dishes or something? That’s all I’ve got.”

“I’ll tell the waitstaff to make the change,” Miller says, wiping at his eyes.

Just then, Lexa breezes into the kitchen.

“I’m taking my break,” she announces to no one in particular.

“You can’t take your break. Then there would be nobody at the front desk.”

“I cannot deal with those people for another moment,” she insists, waving a hand. “They keep asking me if our grounds have bomb shelters built in anywhere.”

“So tell them no,” says Miller.

“I tell them we do not have bomb shelters, and they lecture me. If I lie and tell them we do, they ask for a tour. I cannot win.”

“Who are these people?” Monty asks, frowning.

“Conspiracy theorists,” Lexa growls.

“There’s an apocalypse convention in town,” Bellamy translates. “End of the World Week, or something. I’m sure you’ll see them around; they’re using town hall for their keynote speech tomorrow night.” He checks his watch. “I’ve got a meeting at the bank in twenty minutes, so Lexa, I need you to wait to take your break until I get back. Tell the doomsday people if they want to know about the town’s emergency preparedness, they can take it up with Jaha.”

“Better him than me,” she grouses, but slinks back to the front.

“Corn dishes?” Bellamy confirms, and Miller nods.

“I’ll have a list for you tomorrow.”

“Sounds good. I’m off.”

“If you see Jasper,” Monty calls, “Tell him I did not approve these shirts!”

Bellamy smirks. “Not a chance.”

* * *

“Make no mistake,” the man behind the podium says solemnly, “the apocalypse is imminent.”

“Good,” Bellamy grumbles, holding his hand out to Octavia for the M&Ms. “In fact, hurry it up. Put us out of our misery already.”

The keynote speech has only just begun, but they’ve already been here for an hour listening to a panel debate solar flares and plague resurgence, and it’s not nearly as entertaining as Bellamy had hoped it would be. It’s mostly just depressing, on top of which, Clarke is sitting across the aisle from them with Finn at her side. Bellamy thinks she’s probably regretting her choice of quirky town events to introduce her boyfriend to, but he wouldn’t know because every time he leans forward to make a comment to her, Finn glares at him.

He wouldn’t mind; his tolerance for being glared at is pretty high. He works with Lexa and Miller, so it would have to be. But it makes Clarke shift uncomfortably, and that’s less satisfying for him.

“I’m surprised how many people showed up,” Lincoln whispers from Octavia’s other side. “All these people can’t be staying at the inn, can they?”

“Half these people wandered in because they saw the lights on in town hall,” Octavia snorts.

“Ark Grovers will pretty much go to anything,” Bellamy agrees. He promised Octavia he’d be on his best behavior, trying to get to know her new friend before he passes more judgment on him.

“I’d like to register an official complaint that they haven’t even mentioned zombies yet,” Octavia grumbles. “It’s like our Walking Dead marathon last night was all for nothing.”

“Octavia for keynote speaker next year,” Lincoln says, smiling and giving her a gentle elbow to the side.

“I’d kick ass.”

“Way better than this guy,” Bellamy nods. “He doesn’t even know how to work a crowd. I mean–”

“Bellamy,” someone hisses. He looks around and makes eye contact with Clarke. She’s pressing her lips together like she’s trying not to laugh as she looks pointedly to the podium, where the keynote speaker is glaring at him.

It’s one thing to have Clarke’s douchey boyfriend glare at him. It’s another to be offending his guests.

“I’m sorry,” he says louder, pinching Octavia as she and Lincoln descend into giggles. “I’m being so rude. Please, continue.”

By the end of it, he feels like his brain is leaking out his ears.

“Longest three hours of my life,” Octavia groans.

“And I feel just as unprepared for the end of the world as I did before,” Lincoln agrees, stretching his arms. “I think we deserve some ice cream for sitting through that.”

Octavia looks to Bellamy, pleading and excitement shining in her eyes. He’s never been great at saying no when she gives him that expression.

“I’m probably just gonna head home, but you guys go ahead,” he says, pulling a five dollar bill out of his wallet and handing it to his sister. “Be home by eleven.”

“Thanks Bell!” She says, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek before looping her arm through Lincoln’s. He dwarfs her, but somehow looks like he’s the one who has been bowled over when she turns her grin on him.

“Don’t wait up!”

“You know I will.”

“Never thought I’d see the day.” Clarke says, sauntering up behind him with her hand in Finn’s. She’s wearing jeans and a nice blouse rather than her standard diner uniform, and as attractive as she is, it’s a little disconcerting. “You finally give Lincoln the stamp of approval?”

“I guess it’s true what they say: suffering brings people together.”

She laughs, pulling a smile from Bellamy and a deeper frown from Finn.

“We should get going.” Finn’s tone isn’t unfriendly, is quite mild, in fact, but leaves Bellamy feeling cold.

Clarke’s smile fades slightly. Bellamy kind of hates him for that alone.

“Have a nice night,” he says lamely. Clarke gives him a closed-lipped smile and lets Finn lead her toward his car.

Bellamy’s mood, which had lifted, drops again as he heads home alone. He’s so distracted he almost passes right by Jasper, who has set up a folding table near the gazebo. On one side, there’s a pile of shirts marked 75% off, and on the other, there’s a stuffed bear modeling what must be the t-shirt of the day.

“Hey, Bellamy!” Jasper calls. “How’d that shirt work out for you?”

“Great for me. Monty was less than pleased.”

Jasper colors a little.

“You interested in today’s shirt?” He asks, gesturing to the bear. Apocalypse Comes To Town, the shirt reads. Bellamy’s lips quirk, his bad mood dissipating just a little.

“Not especially. But if you don’t sell enough tonight, come by the inn tomorrow and we’ll promote them to our guests.”

“Really? Thanks!”

“Don’t mention it.” Bellamy shoves his hands in his pockets and gives Jasper a nod. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

Not much chance of that, Bellamy thinks.

It may not be the end of the world, knowing that a guy he's wary of likes his teenage sister, knowing that Clarke is going home with someone who isn’t him. But it’s not his best night. He’s looking forward to putting on sweatpants and falling asleep to the History Channel, looking forward to tomorrow, which will inevitably be better.

Or so he thinks.

* * *

Bellamy tugs his coat tighter around him as he makes his way through the crowd, Octavia hot on his heels. He’s wishing he’d taken the few extra minutes to change from pajamas into actual warm clothes, but the adrenaline rushing through his veins had kept him warm until now.

And he wasn’t exactly thinking clearly after being woken up at four in the morning, Lexa on the phone telling him there was a fire at the inn.

“Miller,” he calls, relieved. His friend turns to him, Monty’s arm wrapped comfortingly around his waist. They’re in similar states of undress, Monty wearing two different shoes and Miller’s sweater both inside out and backwards.

Monty opens his other arm for Octavia to tuck herself under, and Bellamy realizes for the first time that she’s not even wearing a coat. She’d heard him frantically gathering his things to leave and demanded to come along when she heard why.

“What do we know?” He asks, shedding his coat and passing it to his sister.

Miller wrings his hands.

“Not much, yet. I didn’t leave the burners on, did I?”

“No way,” Monty assures him. “That’s why you hired Sterling, remember?”

“How bad is it?” Bellamy asks. “Did they get everybody out?”

“Everyone is out,” Lexa says, appearing at their sides. She’s wearing a flannel set of sleepwear and looks different without her eye makeup on. Much younger, but no less intimidating. “I just spoke with the fire chief, and she says the building is empty. She’ll be over to talk to you in a moment.”

“But we did a headcount, right?” Bellamy still feels frantic. “We have all the guests? We have-- Mel. She comes in early sometimes, gets a ride with her mom. Is she--”

“She’s over there,” Octavia interrupts, laying a hand on Bellamy’s arm. “Everybody is okay, Bell. Breathe.”

“Mr. Blake?” Bellamy turns and finds a firefighter standing patiently behind him. She looks way more in control than he feels, and that settles him more than anything else. “I’m Chief Byrne.”

“What can you tell me?”

“The fire is out,” she promises. “We don’t know the extent of the damage yet, but it looks like you should be able to get back inside within twenty-four hours.”

Relief threatens to knock him over.

“That’s great news. Is there anything you need us for?”

“Not until tomorrow afternoon. In fact, it would be most helpful if you could get these crowds away from the site.”

“Done,” he promises, his mind whirring as he turns back to his family. “Miller, go to Jaha’s and get anything we need for a complimentary breakfast. Monty, see if you can track down Jasper and get him and his shirts down here. People will want clothes to change into. Tell him the inn will pay for it.”

They nod and head out.

“O, round up the kids and keep them entertained. Distracted.”

“On it.” Even swamped in Bellamy’s too-big jacket, even wearing Strawberry Shortcake pajama pants, she looks ready to take the world on.

“Lexa, we need anything you can get-- phones, computers, any way to get people home if they want to go now, or to contact family. See if you can set up emergency headquarters at town hall. Feel free to bully Jaha into letting us have whatever you think we need.”

She nods like a soldier about to go into battle.

“My pleasure.”

Bellamy takes a moment to gather himself, to breathe like Octavia told him, and clears his throat.

“Alright, folks,” he calls in his most authoritative voice. The din begins to die down. “Here’s what’s happening…”

* * *

Bellamy is dead on his feet by the time he actually gets his first cup of coffee, having spent all morning dealing with the owner of the inn, the insurance company, disgruntled guests, and the insurance company.

He stumbles into the diner and slumps onto a stool, wanting nothing more than to put his head down and sleep for a couple of hours. But he can’t do that, because all of his guests are packed into the restaurant, all looking to him to have it together. He can’t lose his cool, at least not until he gets home tonight.

He’d managed to catch Clarke when she showed up to open the diner, rattling out an explanation and offering innumerable favors if she would just let his guests take over her tables for the morning, and Miller, her kitchen.

“Yeah, of course,” she’d said, cutting him off before he could ramble too much. “Whatever you guys need.”

“You’re an angel,” he sighed, slumping against the doorframe. She hadn’t even made it inside before he’d accosted her. “Seriously. Wings, halo, harp, the whole package.”

She’d reached for his hand again, giving it a reassuring squeeze, and Bellamy let her. Her thumb tripped across his knuckles, a barely-there pressure that made his heart pound.

That Clarke was in a drastically different mood than the Clarke who shoves a giant cup of coffee at him now.

“Drink that,” she orders, her tone gruffer than usual. “You look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks,” he says dumbly as she storms off to gripe at Miller.

“She’s been like that for the past hour,” Octavia sighs. Bellamy jumps. He hadn’t even noticed her sitting next to him. “I think she and Miller are trying to out-grump each other.”

“Miller would lose that fight. How’s morale?”

“Pretty good, I think. Other than Clarke, that is. This is the right crowd to have staying at the inn when we have a disaster on our hands. I think some of them are actively enjoying crisis management.”

“Small mercies,” he sighs, then looks at the clock on the wall. “Don’t you have class?”

“In an hour,” she nods. “Lincoln is swinging me by the house to change before we head over.”

Bellamy gives her his sternest big brother look and she rolls her eyes harder than he thought anatomically possible.

“And he’s staying in the car while I change. Obviously.” She shakes her head. “I thought you trusted me.”

“I do,” he sighs. “You’ve been great today. Seriously, thank you for helping me handle this.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a hero,” she teases as Lincoln comes down the stairs that connect the diner with Clarke’s apartment overhead. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Go learn things,” he grunts, waving her off and draining the rest of his coffee.

“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” Lincoln says as he passes, and Bellamy shoots him a grateful smile. He’s pleasantly surprised to find that it’s sincere.

“Will do.”

Lincoln nods quietly and follows Octavia out the door like the calm that settles in the wake of a storm. An interesting pair, to be sure.

“Are you going to order or what?” Clarke snaps, jolting him out of his thoughts.

“I see now why this place is renowned for customer service,” he says, too tired to pull off a properly dry tone as he hands his empty mug to her. “More coffee?”

“You need food too.” She yanks the coffee pot and splashes its precious contents across the counter as she gives Bellamy the world’s angriest refill.

“I’ll get Miller to make me something,” he says, leaning across and catching her elbow as she turns to hound some other customer. “Are we really bothering you that much? Say the word and we’re gone.”

The fire in her eyes dims at that.

“No,” she sighs, reaching for a rag and wiping up the spill with gentle deliberation. “It’s not you guys, I swear. I’d be an asshole to throw you out.”

“And you’re never an asshole.” He’s going for teasing but she doesn’t laugh, her eyes on the now-spotless counter. He places his hand atop hers to still it, feeling weirdly like he’s crossing a line even though she’s pulled this same move before. “What’s going on, Clarke?”

She frowns at him for a moment, then leans in with her elbows on the counter, covert.

“I’m not wearing my underwear.”

It’s like flipping on a burner, his face heats that quickly.

“You’re--” He clears his throat and tries again. “Um-- I guess I can see how going commando might make you cranky? If you’re uncomfortable?”

“No,” she snaps. “I’m wearing underwear, but it’s not my underwear.”

Now Bellamy is the one frowning.

“You’re going to need to spell this out for me.”

Clarke huffs and looks back down at her nails.

“I stayed over at Finn’s last night, which I don’t do that often since I have to get up so early, but-- I got dressed in the dark this morning, and I didn’t realize until a couple of hours ago that the underwear I put on--”

“--aren’t yours,” Bellamy finishes, dread settling in the pit of his stomach. “Maybe Finn has a kink he hasn’t shared with you?”

Clarke gives him a skeptical look.

“I know they aren’t mine because they’re too small for me. No way does Finn wear something this… constricting.”

Bellamy swallows and shifts uncomfortably. He doesn’t want to think about what too-small underwear might be constricting.

“Maybe his ex left them?” He suggests. “No, wait. He just moved here, and you guys have been together pretty much that whole time. They could be his sister’s-- but that’s a very different kind of red flag.” He cuts himself off at the expression on Clarke’s face-- equal parts anger and sadness, and entirely too much resignation.

She’s wearing another woman’s underwear.

His own anger rises in his throat. It goes without saying that Clarke deserves better, that Finn is an idiot, that Bellamy wishes she hadn’t been hurt by someone she was supposed to be able to trust.

“You’re not wearing your underwear,” is what he ends up saying. It’s I understand and I’m sorry all in one, without the pity she would reject out of hand.

“I’m not wearing my underwear,” she agrees.

She starts to walk away again, and Bellamy can’t help but reach for her arm one more time. She looks back at him questioningly.

“You know I’m here if you ever need anything, right?”

She smiles, small but sure, and pulls away.

“I know. Trust me, you’re the first one I’d call.”

* * *

Some of the doomsday groupies leave for home with the assurance that their belongings will be sent to them when Bellamy can get back inside the inn. Others choose to remain, optimistic that they’ll be allowed in soon, and rather excited about the prospect of Ark Grove residents opening their homes.

Bellamy thinks if his guests are truly looking for the small-town experience, they won’t do much better than seeing everyone pull together to support each other in times of crisis.

Miller and Monty take some in, as do Jasper, and Jaha, and various other friends and neighbors. Clarke tells Bellamy she wishes she could offer her space, but Lincoln is already sleeping on her couch, and she definitely won’t be sleeping at Finn’s tonight. Octavia offers up her bed, saying she doesn’t mind crashing at Harper’s despite Mrs. McIntyre’s strict rules.

“She enforces a nine o’clock bedtime,” Octavia gripes, stuffing her pillow into a clean case. “We’re seventeen, not seven. I think we can stay up a little later than that and decide for ourselves when we go to sleep.”

“You’ll live. Besides, it’s not like Harper follows any of her rules anyways. I’m sure you guys will find a way to not go to sleep at nine.”

“Should I be weirded out about having strangers sleep in my bed?” She asks, holding the mattress up as Bellamy tucks the fresh sheets underneath, drawing on his long-buried housekeeping knowledge from his first job at the inn to ensure perfect, crisp lines.

“I wouldn’t worry. I doubt the Johnsons will feel like getting frisky with all your butterflies watching them.”

Octavia hadn’t been enthusiastic about the move to this house until Clarke had offered to help her paint a mural on her walls. Years later, and she’s still stuck with hundreds of butterflies whose spotted wings look more like creepy eyeballs glowing in the dark. It’s not ideal to offer up to a stranger, but Octavia refused to let Bellamy give up his own room. He’s hoping the Johnsons will be either exhausted enough or weird enough that they don’t mind.

“Gross!” She smacks him with a pillow. “I wasn’t even thinking about them getting it on but now I can’t think about anything else! You’re the worst.”

“They’ll behave,” Bellamy laughs, hitting her with his own pillow before placing them both neatly on the bed. “You have nothing to worry about. Probably. Besides, it’s just for one night.”

“When did they say you could get back in?”

“I’m meeting the chief at eight tomorrow morning,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’s really looking forward to sleeping. It’s going to be great. “She said it was an electrical thing, so Miller is off the hook. Not that I ever really thought it was his fault, but--”

“Accidents happen,” Octavia supplies. “And accidents happen more to Miller than to other people.”

“Exactly. You have everything you need?”

“I’m good to go.”

“Text me when you get to Harper’s.”

“Yeah, because the seven-minute walk is so dangerous,” she says, rolling her eyes. Bellamy squeezes her shoulder. After today’s unprecedented disaster, he’s not taking chances.

“Even so.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow after school. Text me and let me know how the meeting with the chief goes, though.”

“I will.”

The Johnsons get settled with little fuss, the moms in Octavia’s room and their twelve-year-old son on the couch with better understanding of how to work the remote control than Bellamy himself has. He’s heading up the stairs to collapse when his phone starts to ring. It’s not a number he recognizes, and he debates just letting it go to voicemail until he remembers that he gave it out as the inn’s unofficial number while their phones are down.

“Ark Grove Inn, Bellamy speaking,” he says, trying not to sound as exhausted as he feels.

“Bellamy?”

He pauses mid stride.

“Clarke?”

“Yeah.”

“What number are you calling from? It’s not--” His blood runs cold. “This isn’t Finn’s number, is it?”

He can’t imagine that she’s forgiven and forgotten that quickly, but he could easily see her going to confront the two-timer. Loudly. With emphatic gestures that might result in her own phone being flung across a room. That’s a scenario he has no trouble picturing.

“No, it isn’t Finn’s number,” she says, and she sounds strange. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call--”

“It’s okay. I told you, if you needed anything--”

“I know.” She pauses. “Can you come pick me up?”

“Of course.” He turns around, glad he didn’t get far enough to take his shoes off or sit down on his bed, lest he know what he was missing right now. “Where are you?”

“I’m kind of--” She clears her throat. “I’m at the county jail. And if you could bring $300 cash, that would be really helpful because, well, I need it for bail money.”

“Bail money,” he repeats, flat.

“I swear I can pay you back right away,” she rushes to add. “I just don’t have it on me--”

“Clarke, what the hell?”

She sighs.

“Can we just talk about it when you get here?”

“You can count on it.” He starts the engine, flipping his headlights on and wishing he’d had coffee with dinner. “Hang tight, I’ll be right there.”

She snorts softly.

“Don’t have much of a choice. But-- thanks, Bellamy. I’ll see you soon.”

It’s a good hour drive to the jail, and another forty-five minutes or so before Clarke is released with all the requisite paperwork filled out. She’s quiet as she directs him to where she left her car. He doesn’t press her on it, knowing she’ll give him an explanation sooner or later. But he doesn’t intend to let her out of the car until he gets one, so probably sooner.

“That’s Finn’s building,” she explains when he pulls up behind her truck.

“Figured as much.”

“I was going to let myself cool down some before I ended things, but then I thought it might be easier if I went ahead and got it over with. So I came to see him. But I didn’t call first, and when I got here, he was just getting out of his car. With Raven.”

She shakes her head. The anger in Bellamy’s stomach starts to boil again.

“I froze. I knew there was someone else, but I didn’t think it would be someone I’m friends with.”

“Do you think she knows?”

“No.” Clarke shakes her head, emphatic. “No way. It caught me so off guard, I let them walk right past me and into the building.”

“I assume this is where the arrest comes in.”

“I might have taken some… aggression out on his car,” she admits.

“Clarke.”

“I know, I know. Not the healthiest outlet, but at least it’s out of my system.”

Bellamy sighs. He’s sure she’s been beating herself up for losing her temper. She doesn’t need him adding to her guilt. He takes a deep breath and musters up a light tone.

“Well, you’re officially a badass,” he points out, managing to startle a laugh out of her.

“I was a badass before.”

“Yeah, but now you have street cred.” He nudges her. “I know this sucks, and in a fair world, Finn would be the one with the broken heart and the criminal record, but I can promise you one thing: you’re going to be fine.”

“My heart isn’t broken,” she protests. “I’m upset about Finn, but I’m honestly more upset about how I reacted to it. I hate that he made me feel like this, but… I’m glad it’s over.”

“Me too,” he says without thinking, wincing when Clarke gives him a funny look. “I mean-- I don’t know what I mean. Don’t hold anything I say right now against me; I’m severely sleep deprived.”

“Shit,” says Clarke, her good humor evaporating. “I forgot. I shouldn’t have--”

“You should have. You should always call me if you’re in jail. Unless I’m right there in the cell next to yours, in which case you should call Octavia so she can have an example of how not to live her life.”

Clarke snorts.

“Solid parenting.” Then, in a more genuine tone, “Thanks for coming to get me.”

He presses his lips together before anything incriminating can slip out. When he does respond, it’s a casual shrug and a, “What else am I doing at two a.m.?”

“Sleeping, I would hope.” She eyes him critically. “You look like you really need it.”

“I’ve still got-- four hours of quality REM time. I just hope I don’t wake up the Johnsons when I get in at three or sneak back out at seven thirty.”

“Stay at my place,” she offers immediately. “I'm closer to the inn. Lincoln is on the couch, but you can take my bed and I can take the floor until you have to leave. Miller has my kitchen again, so there’s no set time I have to be up. Really, Bellamy,” she says, when he starts to protest. “It’s the least I can do.”

He lets out a long breath and studies her. She looks determined, which means this is a fight he might not win anyways, but she also looks-- Maybe he’s projecting, but she looks like she could use a friend right now. They’ve both had a hell of a day, and she might need someone to be there for her every bit as much as he needs someone to be there for him.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “You’ve convinced me.”

Her smile is small, but it’s there.

“I knew I could do it.”

He follows her back to Ark Grove, both of them silent as they park and exit their cars, the key slipping into the diner lock so smoothly Bellamy can hardly hear the click. He can’t stop being aware of how deserted the town square is, how empty the diner is, how alone they are.

Even at the Founder’s Day Festival they were still in public. This is the first time since his kitchen that it’s just been the two of them, and though he knows neither of them are in any sort of place to make a move, it feels meaningful that they have this privacy now. Like a sign that maybe, finally, they’re on the same page.

She must feel it too, because she lingers at the top of the stairs, turning back to look at him.

“Fair warning,” she whispers. “Lincoln snores.”

“Oh, sure.” He can hear the teasing in his own voice despite the breathiness of his tone. “Lincoln snores. Always blame the roommate.”

She smacks his chest lightly, rolling her eyes as she turns to unlock the door to her apartment.

Lincoln is no more than a massive dark blob in a dark room. Bellamy isn’t sure he’d be able to tell if they woke him up, and he finds himself extra paranoid as he follows Clarke through the room to the nook on the other side where her bed is.

He taps her shoulder twice, motioning from her to the bed. She shakes her head, noiselessly emphatic, and gestures from herself to the rug. They go back and forth like this, gestures growing bigger and more exaggerated, Bellamy not wanting to put her out, Clarke trying to be hospitable. Finally Clarke places her hands on his chest and pushes him backwards onto the bed.

The springs squeak beneath him, sounding extra loud in the stillness of the room, and they both freeze, eyes darting to The Lump That Is Presumably Lincoln. He shifts but doesn’t wake, and when Bellamy’s eyes flick to Clarke, she’s smothering a laugh with her hand.

Before he can start bickering with her again, she drags a blanket off the arm of her chair, arranges it over her legs, and turns so her back is to Bellamy. He rolls his eyes and lies back on the bed, thinking that if once she falls asleep, he can move her.

He falls asleep before he gets the chance.

* * *

The shrill, electronic shrieking of his alarm isn’t enough to wake him, as it turns out, because the first sensation he’s aware of is Clarke’s knee in his gut as she clambers over him to silence his phone.

She fumbles with it, not quite awake enough to know what she’s doing. When she finally shuts it up, she flops down next to him on the bed, one of her legs thrown over his, one of her arms flung across her face. She’s warm and close and Bellamy is way too comfortable.

“Sorry about that,” he grunts, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Clarke rolls into the vacated space, nestling into the warmth he left behind.

“‘S okay,” she mumbles, tucking her fists under her chin. He stares at her for a moment, too groggy to ignore how adorable she is, how much he wishes he could just lay back down with her and fall back to sleep.

His phone going off again startles him out of his reverie. Clarke groans and holds it out to him, and just as he gets it turned off (no snooze this time), he hears an all-too-familiar groan. He turns, all traces of sluggishness melting away as his eyes land on the couch, where Lincoln is sleeping.

With his arm around Bellamy’s baby sister.

Anger surges through him, a dam breaking, a tsunami that washes away all rational thought, that dissolves any modicum of control he might have over himself.

“Octavia?”

His accusatory tone, so loud and angry and sudden, has Clarke jerking upright. His sister groans again and burrows further into Lincoln’s chest, then freezes as she places Bellamy’s voice.

“Shit,” she mumbles, pushing against Lincoln’s massive shoulders. “Shit. Lincoln, wake up.”

“What the hell?” Bellamy demands, shaking off the hand that Clarke has placed on his arm so that he can push off the bed and stride toward the still-waking couple. Clarke scrambles off the bed behind him, putting herself in Bellamy’s path, her hands firm on his chest as Octavia sits up, Lincoln not far behind her. Her face is drained of color, like the gravity of what’s happening is finally catching up with her.

“Bell--”

“You told me you were going to Harper’s.”

“Take it easy.” Clarke’s voice is still scratchy from sleep, and he hardly hears it over the roaring in his ears.

“Bellamy--” Lincoln starts, and that does catch his attention.

“Stay out of this,” he growls.

“Don’t talk to him like that!” Octavia’s rage propels her forward. Lincoln catches her arm before she gets too far, wavering only when he catches the look on Bellamy’s face. She pulls free but stays back, the cross of her arms and tilt of her chin familiar. The armor she wears into battle.

“He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Everything about this is wrong. You lied to me, I didn’t know where you actually were last night, you spent the night with a college student when you’re only seventeen--”

“Which is the age of consent in this state!”

“Not helping,” Clarke mutters.

“We only slept.” Lincoln’s voice is low, like he knows this isn’t going to make anything better.

“I don’t care.”

“The law thinks I’m old enough to make my own decisions about this.”

There are a great many things Bellamy wants to say to that. He wants to tell her that as far as she’s concerned, what he says is law. That, cliche as it sounds, as long as she lives under his roof, she’ll follow his rules. That the law must not have known any seventeen-year-olds.

But the wave of Bellamy’s anger has crashed, slammed into the shore with full force. As it recedes, the next wave already prepared to break, he’s left with a cold feeling inside. Octavia has lied to him before, acted out before, but she’s never broken his trust like this.

“Well,” he says instead, “then you’ll face the consequences of your decisions, just like an adult would.” She opens her mouth but he holds a hand up, silencing whatever argument she was about to make. “I don’t have time for this right now, and you don’t want me to dole out consequences while I’m this angry. Go home. Get ready for school. Walk the Johnsons back to Clarke’s. Come straight home at three o’clock. We’ll settle this then.”

Octavia glowers, doesn’t move.

“You should go,” Lincoln tells her, his voice so soft Bellamy’s skin crawls.

Octavia presses her lips together, the picture of teenage petulance, gathers her things, and storms out.

“Bellamy--”

“Don’t.”

“I’m sorry--”

“I said don’t. Clarke vouched for you. I expected better from both of you, not just her.”

Lincoln nods and runs a hand over his shaved head.

“You should go too,” Clarke tells him. Her voice is unreadable, and he thinks there’s some anger in her eyes, behind the understanding. At him? Bellamy can’t be sure.

“Yeah,” he rasps, jaw clenching. “Yeah. Thanks for letting me stay.”

She doesn’t tell him he’s welcome anytime. She doesn’t tell him it was no problem. She doesn’t say anything, or even nod. She just tilts her head toward the door and Bellamy follows his sister out, feeling a little chastised himself.

Miller has already arrived to help prep breakfast. His kitchen staff is a flurry of activity around him, but he’s standing by the counter, arms crossed, expression contemplative. Like he saw Hurricane Octavia blow through, probably heard the gist of the argument, and now he’s waiting for Bellamy.

“Everything okay, man?”

Bellamy sighs and shrugs, then shakes his head.

“I need coffee.”

Miller grabs a to-go mug from the counter and hands it to him. He and Bellamy have been friends long enough he knew what to be ready for.

“You ready?” Miller asks, once Bellamy has chugged about ten ounces.

“You coming?”

“It’s my place too. And Lexa is meeting us there.”

“Oh.” Bellamy wants to feel touched, to feel fond, but he mostly just feels hollow. Like he needs to sleep for ten years. “Then let’s get going.”

They’re both quiet on the drive out to the inn, Bellamy’s thoughts silenced by the icy anger he still feels. When they arrive, Bellamy is relieved to see both Lexa and Chief Byrne waiting for them. They can get right down to business. Distraction. Problems he can fix.

But then they’re inside, and he’s got another reason to be struck dumb.

It’s unrecognizable.

Instead of the colorful, cheerful lobby that usually greets guests, they find themselves standing among remains. Ashes and scorch marks replace decorative touches Bellamy himself so carefully chose. Where there was furniture, there are now piles of rubble, pieces and fragments littering the ground. The floor itself is charred, broken through in some places.

Distantly, Bellamy can hear Chief Byrne telling them about the extent of the damage, about the structural issues they’ll face, about where it started and how it started. But her speech floats straight past Bellamy. He can’t take any of it in.

He can’t quite believe it.

He loves this inn. This place that took him in, this place that gave him and his sister a home and a chance, this place that believed in him. And now it’s ruined.

“Mr. Blake?”

Chief Byrne is studying him with a look of sympathy. He hates sympathy.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch most of that. Do you mind going over it again?”

“Of course.” He takes a deep breath, tries to center himself, to focus. “Here’s what you’re looking at…”

* * *

Bellamy and Miller and Lexa are sitting on the steps of the inn, the only part that’s still in tact, passing around a bottle of pinot from the cellar, the only room untouched by the flames or water damage, when Clarke pulls up in her truck.

“Looks like I brought the wrong beverage,” she says, frowning down at the coffees in her hands.

“No, I should drink that instead,” Bellamy sighs, handing the bottle to Lexa (who immediately raises it to her lips for a long swig) and reaching for a coffee. The mix of tastes is terrible, but he has guests to take care of. And a sister to see to. He doesn’t get to drown his sorrows until late tonight, if that soon.

“I take it the inspection didn’t go well.”

“We’re closed indefinitely,” Miller tells her.

“The damage is extensive,” Lexa adds. “It will be a costly and lengthy process to repair and remodel. I am already updating my LinkedIn profile.”

Bellamy looks over at her, unsurprised to find that she is indeed typing furiously on her phone, wine bottle lodged beneath her arm. Miller rolls his eyes and grabs it away from her. At certain levels of drunkenness, he’s still a functioning chef. As long as he can keep away from the guests, he doesn’t have to concern himself with staying sober like Bellamy does.

“To top it all off, I talked to the owner and he’s toying with the idea of not even--” Bellamy swallows, unable to comprehend the truth he’s already had to share with Miller and Lexa. “Not even reopening. Just-- selling the land and letting the buyer do the hard work.”

Clarke sighs, dropping down next to Bellamy and stealing the bottle from Miller.

“Shit.”

“You can say that again.”

“Shit.” She knows what it means to him. Knows what kind of day he’s had. But he’s not sure where they stand with each other, after this morning. The coffee could’ve been a peace gesture, but she might want to argue with him about how he treated Lincoln, and he’s not sure he has it in him to go through that just now.

“You okay?” She asks, leaning her shoulder against his. Relief begins to trickle through him.

Even if she’s mad at him, she has his back. Keeps him in coffee, checks on how he’s doing. Just as she knows she can count on him to show up in the middle of the night with bail money.

“No,” he half-lies. He is a little better, knowing nothing has changed between them.

“Sounds about right,” she sighs.

Silence settles heavy upon the four of them, like a blanket smothering, suffocating Bellamy.

“Maybe it’s time,” Miller says, after a bit.

Bellamy looks up to find his best friend staring evenly at him. Lexa ignores all of them, typing furiously on her phone, and Clarke looks back and forth between the men in confusion.

“Time for what?” She finally asks.

“Time for us to do what we’ve been talking about doing for a decade,” Bellamy tells her. Miller nods, still holding his gaze, and a tiny spark of hope flickers somewhere deep within him. “Time for us to get our own place.”

* * *

“O?” Bellamy’s tread is heavy as he lets himself in his front door. He’s glad the Johnsons aren’t around, because even if the events at the inn have taken the edge off his anger, he knows his sister has a talent for making it flare up again.

He pauses, listening, but he doesn’t hear anything. His phone says it’s half past three, so she could just be taking her sweet time walking home.

Collapsing onto the couch is a blessed relief. He tells himself he deserves it, that it’s been a long couple of days. That he’s resting up for a fight with his sister, which always takes a lot out of him.

The next thing he knows, he’s startling awake to a knock on the door and it’s dark outside.

“O?” He calls again. No answer.

When he swings the door open, he quickly snaps out of his exhaustion.

“What do you want?” He growls. Lincoln, to his credit, doesn’t shrink back. Doesn’t rise to an equal level of hostility. He’s bigger than Bellamy, but Bellamy has more than ten years on him. That he’s able to calmly look Bellamy in the eye says a lot about his character.

“Octavia asked me to run away with her.” Bellamy blinks, then scowls, ready to ream him out. Lincoln continues hastily, “I didn’t seek her out. She was waiting for me when I got out of my class this afternoon. I told her no, and she got angry and left.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I don’t want to get her in trouble, but-- I haven’t heard from her this afternoon and I was worried. She said she was going with or without me.”

Bellamy pauses, taking a moment to breathe, and calls out again for his sister.

“Octavia. Are you home?” He knocks hard on her door, and when there’s no answer, flings it open. Empty. He pulls out his cell phone-- no texts, no calls from his sister. And she doesn’t pick up when he calls. It doesn’t even ring, just sends him straight to the preset voicemail that came with the phone.

“You don’t have any idea where she went?” He demands. Lincoln shakes his head helplessly.

“She didn’t say. I tried to ask, but she was-- upset.”

Bellamy grabs his jacket from the hook behind the door and shrugs it on, not even bothering to lock the house behind him.

“Get in,” he orders, his voice gruff with anger and worry. Lincoln doesn’t say anything, just climbs into the passenger seat, closing his door much gentler than Bellamy’s slam.

“Where are we going?”

“This,” Bellamy says, “is what small towns are good for.”


End file.
